Death on Telegraph Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  The three women looked up at my arrival. Isabel and Mrs. Montgomery smiled, appearing surprised but pleased to see me. It was several moments before Abigail Forester recognized me. She lowered her spectacles to the end of her nose, studied me carefully from over the rim, then at last appeared to remember.

  “Why, it’s the woman from last night, is it not?” she said, her round, friendly face breaking into a smile.

  “It is, Mrs. Forester,” I said, returning her smile. “It’s good to meet you again under less unpleasant circumstances.”

  Isabel Freiberg was rising from her chair. She handed the baby into Mrs. Montgomery’s outstretched arms and came to greet me.

  “Miss Woolson, I am delighted to see you.”

  She took my hand, and I was surprised to find her skin cold to the touch. Her face was as lovely as ever, but she appeared tired and her eyes were ringed faintly with red, as if she had been crying. I remembered our conversation with Stephen Parke the night before and suspected the young woman had passed an unhappy night. Anyone could see how much she loved Stephen and how wholeheartedly he returned these feelings. I could not deny that a common religion was important in a marriage, but surely love must be accorded equal significance.

  “Yes, yes, Miss Woolson, that is the name,” Mrs. Forester said, breaking into my thoughts. She carefully placed the piece she was knitting in the basket and stared up at me with bright blue eyes. “I’m afraid I did not immediately know you. It was very dark last night, and of course, as you say, we met under dreadful circumstances. I was just telling my sister of our discussion regarding little Billy, and how we must find a good home for him as soon as—”

  “Not now, Abigail dear,” said Mrs. Montgomery, cutting off what well might have been another of her sister’s rambling dialogues. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Miss Woolson. I understand you were present when the police were called to Mr. Dunn’s house last night.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Montgomery, I was there,” I said, noticing again that despite her infirmity, she seemed to possess a strong, determined character.

  Her sister looked at me curiously. “I confess that I was considerably upset last night, but now that Katherine mentions it, how did you happen to be here on the Hill at such a dreadful time?”

  I would have preferred not to answer this question, but I realized that it was bound to be asked sooner or later.

  “It’s a long story, Mrs. Forester,” I answered, determined to keep my explanation as simple as possible. “My brother is acquainted with one of the policemen who received the call last night, which is how I came to hear the sad news.”

  “And this policeman asked you to accompany him to Mr. Dunn’s house?” Mrs. Forester asked, her eyes wide in amazement.

  “No,” I told her. “Actually, my friend and I followed the police wagon.” I adopted a look of chagrin. “Foolish of us, of course. I’m ashamed to admit to succumbing to such vulgar curiosity.”

  The expression on Mrs. Montgomery’s face clearly indicated her disapproval. “Are we to understand that you actually went inside the house?” She gave a censorious little sniff. “Really, Miss Woolson, what can you have been thinking?”

  “Oh, my, it must have been quite horrible,” Mrs. Forester said in a small voice. Despite this display of revulsion, her round, pink face was lit with more than a hint of morbid excitement. “Seeing the poor man hanging like that, I mean. Good gracious! I’m surprised that you didn’t faint straightaway.”

  “Abigail, please,” her sister admonished. “Can you not see how this talk is affecting poor Miss Freiberg?”

  Sure enough, Isabel’s pale face was now almost stark white, and she had sunk back onto the chair she had vacated upon my arrival. I went to kneel by her side, fearing that she was about to be ill. From inside my reticule I took out my bottle of smelling salts, kept there for just such a situation.

  “Here, my dear.” I raised the little bottle to her nose. “This may help.”

  Isabel shook her head and held up a protesting hand. “No, thank you, Miss Woolson. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t sleep well last night. Perhaps fatigue caused me to feel a bit light-headed.”

  As I stood, I noticed Abigail was once again about to speak, and since I feared it might well be more talk about Claude Dunn’s death, I hastened to say, “That piece is lovely, Mrs. Forester.” I crossed to her yarn basket and fingered the tiny garment she had been knitting. The workmanship was exquisite. “Is it a sweater for the baby?”

  “It is indeed,” she said with obvious pride. “I began knitting it after I returned home last night. I found it difficult to sleep after the excitement of Katherine’s party and, of course, poor Mr. Dunn’s death.”

  Once again, I attempted to head off a return to Claude Dunn’s recent demise. Turning to Mrs. Montgomery, I said, “Yes, I remember now. Your sister mentioned that you celebrated your birthday yesterday evening.”

  The older woman gave a short laugh. “Yes indeed, my seventy-fifth birthday. Abigail insisted on giving me a dinner party to mark the occasion, although spending three-quarters of a century on this planet hardly seems cause for a celebration. It’s all rather tedious, actually.” She smiled fondly at Abigail. “But my dear sister is thoughtful to a fault.”

  “Of course we could not allow your birthday to pass without having a party,” Abigail exclaimed, clucking her tongue disparagingly at such a thought. Suddenly she gave a little shudder, and her bright eyes grew solemn. “Just think, poor Mr. Dunn might have been taking his life at the very time we sat down to dinner. It is quite terrible to contemplate. I keep asking myself if there was something we might have done to forestall such a dreadful act.” She regarded her sister unhappily. “We should have insisted that he come to the dinner party, Katherine. If he had, he might still be alive. Oh, dear, I shall never forgive myself.”

  Mrs. Montgomery shook her head wearily. “Abigail, please, stop distressing yourself. Claude Dunn was a grown man, capable of making his own decisions. Of course the action he chose was a tragedy, but we must each take responsibility for our own lives.”

  Sensibly spoken, I thought, although I did not say so aloud. I had no desire to cause her sister further distress. As it was, the tears forming in her faded eyes looked as if they might escalate into a downpour at any moment.

  “Of course it was not your fault, Mrs. Forester,” Isabel assured her neighbor. “We all reached out to the unfortunate man, but it seems his grief was too overwhelming. He must have felt that he could not go on without Lucy.”

  Mrs. Montgomery’s chin jutted out, and her eyes grew dark. “It was a selfish act, Isabel, plain and simple. I do not doubt for one moment that the man missed his wife—after all, she spent her short married life seeing to his every need.” She bent down to kiss the top of the infant’s head. “However, by making such a self-serving choice, he has deprived this unfortunate little boy of the only parent he had left. I am sorry if I appear cruel or hard-hearted, but that action was irresponsible in the extreme!”

  “My poor sister has a soft spot in her heart for little boys,” said Mrs. Forester, regarding Mrs. Montgomery fondly. “Her only son, Lawrence, by her late first husband, Mr. Giraud Tilson, was killed in the march on Vicksburg. What a handsome and clever lad he was. And so talented. We had such high hopes for him. The poetry he would write. Why, when he was only a slip of a boy—”

  “Abigail!” A look of sadness shadowed Mrs. Montgomery’s lined face, although I could see she was trying to hide it from the rest of us. “You will tire these poor ladies with your stories.”

  Mrs. Forester drew out a handkerchief to wipe at a tear. “I do tend to ramble on, I’m afraid. And my poor sister has never entirely recovered from losing her only child, have you, dear?”

  Katherine Montgomery’s face had paled, and her own eyes appeared suspiciously moist. “Nonsense, that was a long time ago. Miss Woolson is not interested in our family’s dreary history.”

  “But
, Katherine, it is because of Lawrence that you established a literary foundation,” Abigail said, looking a bit hurt by her sister’s harsh words. “Some nights I hear you crying when you think I am asleep. You do grieve, my dear. It is nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, I consider such undying love to be—”

  “Sister, I beg you,” Mrs. Montgomery said, growing increasingly distressed. Two bright spots of red had appeared on her cheeks, contrasting with her pallid skin. “Please, my dear, that is enough.”

  “Yes, of course. I, that is…,” the woman stammered unhappily, aware that she had upset her sister but looking as if she were not entirely sure why.

  There was an awkward silence, and I regarded the infant sleeping peacefully on Mrs. Montgomery’s ample bosom. His tiny eyes were closed, but his mouth was making little sucking sounds, and I wondered when he had last been fed.

  “Have any decisions been made about the baby?” I asked, once again attempting to channel the conversation onto smoother waters.

  “As I promised last night, Miss Woolson, we are already searching for a suitable home for the tyke,” Mrs. Forester replied, regaining some of her previous animation. “In the meantime, we have worked out what I am certain will be a satisfactory arrangement. Katherine and I have hired a live-in wet nurse, who will reside with us until we are able to find a permanent home for the baby. Mrs. Sullivan has done a fine job feeding the baby, but it is awkward when she has so many children of her own. And of course the family will soon be leaving for Los Angeles, although I cannot think why they would wish to move to such a hot, dreary place. Personally, I hope to remain in San Francisco until the day I—”

  “That is very welcome news,” I said, speaking quickly as Mrs. Montgomery cleared her throat, fearful she was about to reproach her sister yet again for rambling. And I truly was relieved to learn that little Billy was not to be sent to an orphanage.

  “Because of your kindness,” I went on, “the baby is sure to receive excellent care. Please do not hesitate to let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”

  * * *

  I departed the Freiberg house a few minutes later, to find Bruno Studds standing with Tull O’Hara under an acacia tree, its branches ablaze in a dazzle of golden blooms. From the ink spatters covering the typesetter’s shirt and rough trousers, I guessed that he had just returned from work. Considering O’Hara’s aloof nature, I was taken aback to see him actually speaking to someone, although judging by his unsteady appearance, I suspected he might have been drinking. Even more surprising, since I’d yet to hear the man utter a single word, was that Bruno Studds was actually participating in the unlikely conversation. I wondered if O’Hara had been on his way to visit Studds the afternoon Mama, Celia, and I visited Telegraph Hill?

  I started toward the men, hoping to ask the typesetter a few questions about Dunn’s death, but the moment he caught sight of me, he turned and scurried down the hill. Before I could reach Studds, he too had hastened away. Watching Mrs. Montgomery’s handyman’s departing back, I wondered why both men were so reluctant to speak to me. Was it because I was a woman? If so, this would not be the first time I had encountered such prejudice. Or did they consider me an outsider because I didn’t reside on Telegraph Hill? Surely they couldn’t believe I posed a threat to either one of them, could they? That thought was so absurd, I nearly laughed.

  I continued to ponder this as I walked farther up the road, which was a muddy mess. The dirt lane was filled with a great many puddles left over from last night’s rain, and I was forced to pull up my skirts in order to keep them dry. I did not bother to stop and interview the few people I passed along the way, most of them women working in their gardens, beating rugs, or calling in children for dinner. Glancing at the gold timepiece on my shirtwaist, I was surprised to see that it was after five o’clock, a good deal later than I had realized. I picked up my pace and hurried to reach Claude Dunn’s street, where I planned to commence my interviews.

  I had progressed another block when I spied three men walking toward me down the hill. As they drew closer, I recognized Stephen Parke, Emmett Gardiner, and Mortimer Remy.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Woolson,” Parke and Gardiner said almost in unison, doffing their hats politely.

  “What brings you to the Hill, Miss Woolson?” Remy inquired. “I thought you would have had more than enough of us by now.”

  “I came to see how little Billy Dunn was faring,” I answered, truthful enough as far as it went. I saw no reason to share the primary reason for my visit.

  “That is precisely what we are doing,” said Remy in his pleasant southern drawl. As always, the editor was perfectly attired in a vest and day coat, trousers pressed, his cravat neatly tied. “I understand that Miss Freiberg is caring for the child today, and we wished to see if there was anything we could do to help the dear young lady.”

  “I must say that I’m surprised to see you here at this time of day, Mr. Remy,” I said. “Samuel tells me that you often work at your office late into the night.”

  Remy gave a rueful smile. “Ah, you’ve caught me out, Miss Woolson. It is true that I am a slave to my newspaper. Ever since my wife passed away, I’m afraid it has become my passion in life.” The smile vanished, and he grew serious. “After last night’s tragic events, however, I found it difficult to concentrate on my work, so I left early. Mr. Dunn’s death was a dreadful shock to us all. And of course a tragedy.”

  Stephen shook his head in sad agreement. “As I said when you delivered the terrible news last night, Miss Woolson, it is difficult to take in. I knew Claude was devastated by Lucy’s death, but I never expected that in his sorrow he might resort to such desperate measures.” He stole a glance over my shoulder. “Did you happen to see Mr. Freiberg as you were walking up the hill?”

  The young man kept his face carefully bland, but I knew exactly what he was asking me: Was Solomon Freiberg at home, or was Isabel there alone with the baby?

  I sought to repress the smile that twitched on my lips. “Actually I just left the Freiberg house. Mr. Freiberg was not there, but Mrs. Montgomery and her sister, Mrs. Forester, were visiting.”

  “Well, I don’t imagine they will object if we drop in and have a peek at the little one.”

  “No, I’m sure your visit will be most welcome, Mr. Gardiner,” I agreed. “It is reassuring to see all the support that poor child is receiving.” Aware that it was growing late, I smiled and said, “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have another friend I wish to see before I return home.”

  “Of course,” said Emmett Gardiner, placing his hat back on his head. “We mustn’t detain you any longer. Please give Samuel my best wishes.”

  “I hear that his recovery is progressing so speedily that it is difficult to keep him in check,” Stephen Parke put in. “I have been meaning to stop by and see him.”

  “I’m sure he would enjoy that, Mr. Parke,” I answered with a laugh. “It’s impossible to keep him down. I promise to give him your regards.”

  The three men wished me good day, then continued their journey down the hill. I turned and resumed my walk in the opposite direction.

  When I reached Mrs. Annabelle Carr’s residence, I tapped lightly on the door. This was the neighbor who had discovered Dunn’s body the previous evening, and I was uncertain if she would be willing to speak to me after such a shock. However, the door was opened by a plump woman whom I took to be in her late thirties.

  “Whatcha want?” she asked a bit curtly.

  I smiled in an attempt to put the woman at ease. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Carr, especially after your dreadful experience last night.”

  This seemed to surprise the woman, and she regarded me with more interest. “How do you know about that?”

  “My name is Sarah Woolson, Mrs. Carr, and I was a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Dunn.” This last statement was greatly exaggerated, of course, but I felt the white lie was necessary if I was to gain admittance. “I will understand if you don’t feel u
p to it, but I wonder if you might spare me just a moment or two of your time?”

  The woman regarded me without speaking, then seemed to make up her mind and held the door open, indicating that I should come in. I nodded my thanks and entered, following my hostess into a small front room.

  Mrs. Carr was dressed in a faded yellow day dress, and her feet were shod in rather scuffed brown boots. As I feared, her full, round face was pale, and dark circles were plainly visible beneath her light green eyes. She indicated that I should take a seat in one of the upholstered chairs, while she sank into one opposite me.

  “I am feeling poorly today,” she said, not bothering to offer me any of the usual libations. “Why don’t you just tell me straightaway why you want to talk to me.”

  Her words bordered on rudeness, but I could not blame the poor woman. She really did appear fatigued, and I did not doubt that she had slept poorly the previous night. Since my own lack of sleep had begun to weigh upon me as well, it was easy enough to sympathize.

  “I agree that is the best course,” I said. “Actually, I wondered if we might discuss how you happened to discover Mr. Dunn’s bod— That is, how you happened to be at his house last night?”

  She gave an involuntary shudder at the memory this evoked, but her voice remained steady. In fact, I received the impression that she did not mind discussing her alarming experience nearly as much as I had expected. Perhaps she had no one else with whom to share the ordeal and was relieved at the opportunity to unburden herself.

  “It was horrible,” she said, wiping her hands vigorously on a towel she must have carried in with her from the kitchen. “I’d been bringing Mr. Dunn dinner from time to time since poor Lucy died, you see, but I was late yesterday because my husband was sick and had been pestering me something awful. It was just after seven when I finally had time to take him the tray. I knocked on the front door, but there was no answer. Thinking he might be in his yard, I went around to the back.” She licked her lips and swallowed, then continued in a small voice, “I thought I’d just put the food in his kitchen, but I—I saw him as soon as I went in the back door. He was—”